


High Spirits

by StarsGarters



Series: MCU AUs [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Angst, Crack, Feels, Forbidden Love, Ghost Sex, M/M, Possession, nonconsensual blanket burrito
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow found the perfect apartment. Too bad it came with a jealous ghost...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Беспокойные духом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9367880) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



41\. ghost/living person au

He wasn’t going to move. 

This place was rent controlled for one thing. It was also two blocks away from his job, right on the bus line and close to a grocery store. His neighbors were old deaf ladies who didn’t care about his music or the noises the guys he brought home made. No. This place was perfect and nothing as  _stupid_  as a ghost was going to chase him out of it. 

The ghost only seemed to act up when Brock brought home a fling. Pictures would fly off the walls and hit the guys in the back of the head. Books would drop on their toes. Cold trails of ectoplasm would dribbled down their spines as they rode Brock. After the fourth screaming twink ran out of his place, Brock had fucking  _had it_  with this ghost.  

Brock poured himself a beer and sat down naked at the kitchen island. He snapped his fingers in the air and loudly announced, “Do I have your attention?” 

He took a swig. “I think we need to establish some ground rules here. Knock once for yes and twice for no. Can you do that?” The coffeemaker lifted up and slammed on the counter.  _YES_

“Okay. I like it here. Do you want me to leave?” The coffee maker slammed twice, part of the carafe snapped off.  _NO._

“What the hell is your problem anyway? You’re not some dead bigot are you?” _NO._

 _“_ So, do you want to be alone?”  _NO._  

Brock leaned back against the island and let his legs sprawl. “You’re… not jealous, are you?” Silence. Brock ran his hand down his lean torso tauntingly. “Do you want a piece of this?” 

More silence. He took another swig. “’Cause, I don’t even know who you are. Are you a dude?” YES. 

“What’s your name Ghost Boy?” A bottle of cheap whiskey dropped into the sink and a piece of the shattered bottle rose up and hovered. Brock held out his hand, the glass fragment dropped into his palm. “Jack. Your name was Jack.” YES.  

“Well, Jack, we’re going to have to find a better way of communicating, because you can’t keep destroying my shit. And unless you’re going to fuck me, I’m still going to bring guys home. But you can’t fuck me. You’re  _dead_.” Brock finished his beer and chuckled at himself, he stood up to put away the bottle. He bent over the recycle bin and he froze as the temperature of the surrounding surrounding air plummeted. Cool wet pressure slapped against his bare ass and Brock yelped. 

“You bastard!” Brock rubbed his butt cheek and scowled. “Stupid ghost!” Another crack on his ass, “Now look.  _Jack._  You’re dead. It would never work.” Brock babbled. He swore he could feel cold, rough hands on his chest then stroking through his hair, pulling on it.

 Brock thudded against the wall, pushed and held there by an unseen force. His cock stroked and fondled by an invisible hand sprung to life. Brock gibbered as the ghost teased him. “Oh hell— please- just finish it— oh God— yes-” 

The coffeemaker slammed twice on the counter and Brock dropped to the floor on his ass, sticky with his own pre-cum and ghostly residue. “Oh, you _motherfucker!”_  Brock swore, his ego bruised as his ass, “God damn you Jack! This means war!” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly fleshed out *cough* update of this cracky crack fic.

Brock pulled on his clothes, stubbed his toe on the futon and cursed as he hopped around the apartment. "Oh yeah? We'll see who gets the last laugh, dead man."

He muttered and patted his pants pockets. Where the hell were his keys? "Now look! You can't take my keys. That's just not cool!" Brock scowled. 

A small jingle over by the side table. His keys. Right where he'd left them when he'd brought home his fling. _Huh_. Somehow the ghost pointing this out was more unbearably insulting than outright theft would have been. Brock slammed the door behind him and stalked out of the apartment building. He'd show that spook who was in charge.

Brock staggered in the door about three hours later, reeking of booze. He shut the door behind him, dropped his keys on the floor and stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the living room. "Get a load of _this_!" He pulled off his shirt and pointed at the fresh, angry red hickeys that trailed up and down his chest. There was a bite mark on his shoulder that was going to ache like a sonuvabitch in the morning.

"You don't get to make the rules! That's right! I'm the rule maker! I'm not dead, you dead boy! And that will teach you to..." Brock's angry bluster started to falter, he always got sleepy when he was plastered. "Anyways, no trying to jerk me off without my okay! Damn pervert ghost. That's not cool, bro. Not cool." He made his way to his bed, flopped diagonal across it and started to snore. 

Brock's hair was combed back from his face by careful unseen fingers then his shoelaces delicately untied themselves and his shoes slipped off to rest neatly beside the bedroom door. The garish crocheted afghan blanket from his futon floated over and spread over his body. And the deadbolt turned in the door, locking Brock securely inside. A magazine on the kitchen table opened up and the pages turned, the reader deliberate and slow. 

\--

One good thing about having an undead roommate was that the ghost was quiet most of the time. The only time it really threw a hissy fit was when Brock brought over guys. And that was one of Brock's favorite activities. Casual sex was a fantastic hobby and work out in Brock's opinion. He wasn't going to be hot forever and frankly, he wasn't doing all these fucking sit ups for his health. It wasn't hard to pick up guys at work either. It's not like waiting tables was his career life goal. He just hadn't decided what he wanted to do yet.

So when a skinny little blonde boy gave him a tip that was well beyond 100%, Brock was inclined to slip him more than just his phone number. There was just something fantastic about being able to literally pick up a guy when kissing him. "What was your name again?" Brock asked, after kissing the blonde hard up against his apartment door. 

"Steve," he stole another hungry kiss, "I've told you that three times now." 

"Sorry, all the blood has left my brain and gone elsewhere." Brock ground himself against Steve's hip and lavished nibbling kisses on the hollow beneath his ear. "I want to invite you inside, but I have a pissy roommate." 

"Maybe he'll like me." Steve whimpered, "I can be quiet. You can gag me if you like." His blue eyes twinkled and Brock swallowed hard. "I think you might have something... right... _here_ that could do the job really nicely." Steve cupped Brock's hard bulge in his hand and gently squeezed. 

"Aaah!" Brock's wordless groan echoed in the hallway. "This is going to sound really stupid, but do you-- do you believe in ghosts?" 

Steve's eyebrows knitted, "No. Why?" 

Brock was torn between his need to get those pretty pink lips around his cock and warning Steve about Jack. The  _ghost,_ he corrected himself. He wasn't going to go about calling his bitchy roommate by his first name. His sheer lustful desire won out and he said, "Oh no reason. Come on, let's get you naked and on my bed." Then he picked up Steve, put him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and opened the door. Steve whooped and giggled, while he kicked off his shoes.  

There was something so _satisfying_ about the way that boy bounced on Brock's mattress. Brock jumped on the bed himself, straddling his prey. He took off his shirt and grinned at the satisfied sigh that Steve made. "You like?" Steve ran his fingers up Brock's abdominals and nodded. Brock bit his lip and sucked in his breath through his teeth. "Be right back, _gorgeous_. Get naked." He walked over to the bathroom to find that spare bottle of lube stashed in the cabinet. 

Brock shoved it in his back pocket and leaned against the door frame, "So, do you like movies about gladiators, Steve?" 

The boy started to unbutton the top of his jeans and sucked on his finger with a smile. Oh yeah, this was gonna be  _fun._

The bed began to rock back and forth, heaving like a boat on a stormy sea. Steve's shoes dropped onto the bed, one after the other. "Brock?" Steve asked in a small terrified voice.

 _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._  The blonde boy was swallowed up in Brock's blanket, a lumpy squirming  _screaming_ bundle. Then the bundle rose into the air, the front door slammed open and Brock's date was dumped into the hall with a undignified squawk. 

"Oh fuck no!" Brock ran over to the door which slammed closed in his face. "No! No! You can't do that!" Brock banged on the door. "Steve! Steve! Are you okay?" He gritted his teeth. "Open this fucking door  _Jack_ or so help me, I'll move out. Do you want that? You fucking pervert?" The door unlatched and Brock stormed out into the hall.

Steve was gone. Brock gathered up his blanket from the hallway and turned back to his apartment. 

Scrawled on the door in glowing, dripping gooey ectoplasm was the word, " _MINE_." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

For two whole weeks, Brock had said nothing when he came home from his job. No rants about his work day, no gossip or petty grievances. He bit his normally very active tongue and did nothing that might provide the ghost with any voyeuristic entertainment. He took showers at the gym. He ate out. No new magazines or books, he didn't even turn on the television. And no jerking off.

It was fucking _killing_ him.

But two weeks to the day that the ghost had chucked Steve out on his pert ass, Brock  _won._  

His apartment was spotlessly clean. The wood floors were swept, his shelves dusted. It wasn't that he was a slob, he just had other things that needed his time. Like his abs or his hair. Important things.

Brock looked cautiously into his bedroom. He had two baskets, one for clean clothes and one for dirty. The clean clothes were folded and stacked on his shelves for the first time ever. The bed was made. Brock never made his bed, he didn't see the point. His bed now had hospital corners and was so tautly stretched Brock's fingers itched to mess it up. On the bedspread was the word _SORRY,_ spelled out in quarters, exactly enough quarters for two loads of laundry. 

Brock put his hands on his hips and announced to the room, "Sorry? That's what this apology is, dead man! Really, you can do better." He sneered. "You've ruined my sex life, Casper! I think you know how you can make it up to me." 

The temperature around him dropped several degrees. Brock lifted his chin and crossed his arms. "Trying to intimidate me Spooky? Well, nice try." Brock huffed, "I think you like it when I talk back. You like the sound of my voice almost as much as I do." The air warmed, "See? I'm not afraid of you. So show me. Show me how  _sorry_ you are, dead man." 

Invisible fingers hesitantly combed through Brock's hair, then trailed down his stubbled cheek and Brock blinked in surprise at the gentleness of the touch. If the ghost was a man, then he would have been standing right in front of Brock. Brock reached out his arm and felt nothing. Brock closed his eyes to better feel the ghost's caresses. He swore that he could smell tobacco and a hint of spicy cologne. "Still not feeling it." Brock feigned a yawn. 

Suddenly, Brock was enveloped in a maelstrom of heaving, seething emotions. The ghost had stepped _into_ him. Brock stopped breathing as guilt, regret and anger surged through him. But the  _loneliness_  was more terrible and strong than any of the other feelings, because it was mixed with despair.  He looked down at his hands. They weren't his hands anymore. The floor was farther away now, shit, he was  _taller._ He was wearing an uniform like the ones Brock saw in old World War 2 movies. 

Brock fell to the floor, gasping. "No! That's not me! Get out of my body. GET OUT!" He clawed at his body trying to rip off the spectral skin clinging to him. As suddenly as the ghost had invaded, he retreated, leaving Brock in a pile on the floor. Brock put his hands over his eyes and yelled, "Never! Never fucking do that again. Do you understand me?"

The lamp on the bed stand lifted up and fell. YES. Brock heard the sound of coins dropping on the floor. He slowly sat up. The word SORRY was on the floor in front of him. Well, Brock thought, he had asked to  _feel_ it and the ghost had obliged him. Brock chafed his arms and shivered, trying to reassure himself that it was his own skin.

"Okay. Okay. Look, I was just angling for a bit more of what you did to me in the kitchen the other night, that's all." The ghost tentatively touched Brock's hand, light as a whisper, then the same touch upon Brock's lips. "Oh fucking kiss me like you mean it, Jack." He felt himself gathered into strong arms and if he closed his eyes, the kiss felt really good. His stomach turned over and he swallowed hard after Jack released him from his embrace. " _Shit_." He swore softly, then unfastened his work pants, kicked off his shoes and took off his shirt, flushed pink. 

Jack pushed him up against the foot of the bed with a desperate hunger that fed Brock's insatiable ego and therefore, his cock. Brock felt Jack touch every inch of his skin, a bit of ectoplasm dripped down Brock's chest. "Getting a little excited there, Spooky?" Brock dragged his finger through the goo and shrugged, then touched it to his tongue. Salty like tears, but not as bitter as some guy's jizz. That must have really set Jack off because Brock levitated off the floor and onto his mattress with a bounce. 

He wriggled out of his pants and grinned. "Well, Jack, are you gonna make me feel it?", he challenged. 

He needed to learn how to keep his mouth shut. One of these days. 

His back arched in pleasure as Jack slavered over his cock, he must have been a champion cock sucker when he was alive. The real kicker was the ectoplasm slicked tendril that snaked up Brock's ass and probed at his prostate like no human fingers ever could. Brock gasped and wound his fingers in the blankets until he came hard enough to see stars. Well, it had been two weeks... he had some serious blue-balls. 

When his vision cleared, he saw that his cum was hanging in midair. Brock laughed, "Gave you a facial, huh? Well, you're not going to bitch about me getting it in your eyes, are you?" The semen fell upon Brock with a wet spatter as the ghost blinked out. "Fiiiine. But how am I supposed to know where your fucking face is? Drama queen," Brock sleepily muttered. 

The warm wet washcloth was a nice touch, gentle and soothing. The huge fucking wet spot in the middle of the bed in the morning was not. "Ghosts are  _NOT_ allowed in the bed!" Brock proclaimed, pointing at the puddle of goo. "And I don't care if you like to cuddle or not!" Quarters rained down upon Brock, pelting him with enough change for another load of laundry. They did not spell out anything remotely apologetic this time. 

 

  

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Brock braved the Dollar Store and came back to his place with a bag full of dry erase markers and whiteboards to hang up in the kitchen, bedroom and living area. He uncapped a marker and put it on the table, "So, Casper. This is a marker, you write on the whiteboard. That way you don't have to destroy anything to talk to me." 

 _Hello._  The marker slowly wrote. 

Brock grinned in triumph. "So what's your full name and rank ghostie? I know you were in the military, I saw that spiffy uniform."

Some hot recruiter had tried to lure Brock into signing up in high school, but there was no way that Brock would have made it in the age of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Not with all those fine men surrounding him. Nope, Brock told that recruiter that he was queerer than a three dollar bill and they stopped asking. Well, they stopped asking him to _enlist_ , they didn't stop asking him to blow them underneath the football bleachers. Fun times. 

 _Sergeant_ _Jack Rollins of the 32nd Naval Scouts and Raiders. Born 1919._  The marker dropped onto the table.  

"Huh. That's the same name as the old landlady next door. You're _hella_ old, aren't you Spooky?" 

 _You're the one with grey hair._  It felt like Jack blew in his ear. 

"What? No! I do not!" Brock stomped into the bathroom. " _Shit._ I’m not going to get old and wrinkly without a fight, ghostie.” Brock snarled at the grey hair in his temple and ruthlessly wielded his tweezers. “There’s only room for one old guy in this place.” Kicking and screaming was Brock's aging plan. Nothing graceful about that. 

Jack wrote on the bathroom whiteboard, _I was 26 when I died._

“Huh. That’s young. Disease? Get run over by a Model T? What killed you?" He poked at an ingrown hair on his chin. Not quite ready... Brock paused when he saw the answer.

 _My best friend_. And then Jack was silent. He didn't answer any more of Brock's questions, it was as if he no longer existed. 

Brock did  _not_ like being the victim of the silent treatment. He walked to the next apartment and knocked on the door. A wizen old woman answered, "Hello, Brock? It's Brock right?" 

"Yes ma'am." She had so many wrinkles that she looked like a dried out apple, but her grip on his arm was strong. Really strong.

She pulled him into her apartment. "Come in, come in. I don't get many gentleman callers these days. Sit down. Have a candy." He took an ancient cellophane wrapped candy from a dusty bowl. He didn't recognize the brand, maybe it was antique candy? He turned it over in his fingers. "What can I help you with?"  

"I was wondering about this building. Do you know when it was built?" 

"In 1945, right after the war. My family built it. I was just a young thing at the time." She patted his leg. 

Brock asked, "Are you related to a Sergeant Jack Rollins by any chance?" Her face brightened. 

"He was my uncle. Huge man. Tall and big as a horse. I mostly remember looking up at the underside of his chin." She chuckled, "Now why are you asking about my long dead relative? He's not being a bother, is he? I've told him to behave himself around the handsome young men. You're the only one in the building right now though."

Brock grinned at the compliment and shook his head. "He's a huge pain in my ass. So, you know about him haunting my apartment. You didn't mention that in the lease agreement." 

"Ghosts aren't considered a standard feature in rentals. Consider him a bonus. And he doesn't haunt just your apartment, he watches over the whole building. Scared the stuffing out of Mr. Hans in 2B when he was beating up his missus back in the Seventies. Threw him out on the street after kicking him in the family jewels. Uncle Jack has his own code. Do you want to look at some pictures?" The candy dish started to rock back and forth agitatedly. 

Brock nodded and smirked. "Yeah. Yeah, I _really_ do." Embarrassing family photo time. Priceless revenge.  

"This is Jack when he was just a wee one." Ms. Rollins pointed at a tintype, a bald baby scowled at the camera. He was probably pissed off at what he was wearing. 

"That's a very frilly dress." The candy dish spun around and a few mints tipped over the edge. 

"Oh that's how we dressed up babies then," She flipped a few more pages, "Look, that's Uncle Jack in his uniform. He was in demolitions, he carried the explosives. He was so brave." Brock looked at the very handsome man carrying a huge load in a backpack, he towered above the rest of his squad, his helmet straps dangling against his scarred chin. Brock wouldn't have kicked him out of the bed for eating crackers... 

"What happened to him?" Brock asked quietly. Once you knew what someone looked like, it was harder to be flippant about their death. Even harder when they'd been fucking you last night. _God damn it_. 

"No one really knows. He survived Utah Beach, with honors. The fall of Berlin. Made it home, kissed me on the cheek and told me how big I'd gotten and vanished a few weeks later." The candy dish stopped moving as she stared at it. "He certainly won't tell _me_ what happened, stubborn old goat. He'll cover me up with a blanket and let out the cat, but chat with me? No." She whispered to Brock behind her hand, "I think he's ashamed about something. He can't let go and that's why he's hung around for so long. Does he talk to you?" 

"Umm. Yeah. We've talked." Brock nodded, still staring at the photo. 

"Good. I'm not going to be around forever, so it's good that he's taken a liking to you. Have another candy, dear." Ms. Rollins patted Brock on the arm. "Don't be such a stranger. If Jack likes you, then you're a good man." 

Brock winced, "Jack might not be the best judge of character, ma'am." He was a terrible person. It wasn't like he drowned kittens or anything like that, but he knew what an asshole he was and had no plans to change that. 

"I think you're just his type." She felt up his bicep and sighed as he flexed for her, just to goad the ghost. The apartment rumbled and a mint flew by Brock's ear. "Oh, do be quiet, Uncle Jack." She scolded her long dead relative. "And be nice to Brock." 

Brock smirked, "Yeah, be nice to me." This time a mint hit him in the chest. "He's such a handful." 

"Runs in the family." She laughed. "Come by for dinner and I'll tell you about Jack and the timber-hauling mule. One of them was going to move and it certainly wasn't Jack." 

He grinned and surprised himself by agreeing. It wasn't something that Brock would usually do, but if it gave him more information about Jack, then dinner with his landlady was a small price to pay. She might even be able to cook. "That sounds great. Tell me there's more photo albums too." 

"Tons of them, my grandfather was an amateur photographer and his family was his favorite subject. Once, he set fire to the woodshed with his photo chemicals. It was a huge thing, Grandpa's eyebrows never grew back!" She clapped her fingers to her mouth and giggled like a much younger woman.

"Uncle Jack! You put that dish down right now! Behave yourself!" The candy bowl dropped to the table with a sullen clunk and Brock had won again in this battle of wills. That was just the way he liked it. 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Brock didn't feel so good. People on the bus gave him his own seat when they heard his cough. That was not a good sign.

He stumbled into his apartment and left a trail of all his clothes from the door to his bedroom. He face-planted on his bed. "I think I have a fever," he mumbled against his pillow. "Scratch that. I  _know_ I have a fever. I can't get the plague, not now!"

He fumbled for his phone, made sure the backup alarm was set. If he was late again, his boss was going to fire him. He'd run out of legitimate excuses for his tardiness that wouldn't get him committed to an asylum. _I was late because the ghost in my apartment saw the dating app on my phone and hid my shoes._ Yeah, that sounded completely bonkers. So it was critical that he showed up on time, sick or not. He dropped the phone beside him and passed out. 

Jack gathered up the clothes strewn in the living room and put them in the hamper. Spectral fingers combed back Brock's sweaty hair. A cool washcloth from the bathroom floated over to Brock's forehead. Brock started to shiver from his fever. The apartment began to rumble and the front door flew open, closely followed by the landlady's door. Ms. Rollins blearily blinked as Jack carried her into Brock's apartment. 

"You're lucky I was decently dressed, Uncle Jack. Now put me down. What's gotten you all lathered up?" Jack prodded her in the direction of Brock's bedroom.

"Now what's wrong with you, Brock?" She rested the back of her hand on his forehead. "Burning up. Jack, go get the aspirin from my medicine cabinet and a glass of water. And my slippers. I think they fell off in the hall." She smiled down at the naked man sprawled on the bed. "You have very good taste, Uncle Jack. Now wake up Brock. Come on sweetheart." The bottle of aspirin and glass of water appeared so quickly on the bedside table that the glass sloshed.

"How?" Brock asked between swallowing the pills and sipping the water. "Did you?" He was very pale and dropped his head back on his pillow as if it weighed too much to lift. 

"Uncle Jack, of course. Now get under the covers sweetheart, you're about to give an old lady a heart attack." Brock let her bundle him into the sheets and fell asleep immediately. "Jack, watch him. Come get me if he doesn't break his fever." The walls rattled, "I know. I know. He's young and strong. He'll be fine. Keep him cool and where are my damn slippers?" Her slippers dropped by her feet, "That's better." She shut the front door behind her.

Brock moaned in his sleep and the ghost slid in bed beside him, covering his feverish form with cold green goo. Brock sighed and moved closer. Jack petted Brock's hair, the bed swayed like a cradle, the ghost held Brock throughout the night.

Brock woke up in a puddle of his own sweat and ectoplasm. "I told you, no ghosts in the bed! You're lucky I put on that mattress cover." He flipped his hands, dribbles of goo flung against the bed covers. Brock froze. "What the fuck time is it?" He grabbed for his phone, "Shiiiiiit!" He opened the text message from his boss and fell back into the puddle with a squishy sploosh.

He held up his phone accusingly, "Did you mute my phone?" The lamp bounced once. YES.

"Did you unplug my alarm clock?" YES.

"Are you trying to ruin my life? How the hell am I supposed to pay rent? Do you think about these things that people with _bodies_ have to deal with? I mean, your niece is a sweet lady, but she's not going to let me stay here without paying the rent. Do you understand what you've done here?" Brock stumbled into the bathroom and sat down to take a piss. 

On the bathroom whiteboard. _You were sick. You needed rest._  

"What I needed was employment. And you've just fucked me out of that." Brock turned on the bathtub taps and poured in a generous helping of bubble bath. The steam filled up the bathroom and fogged the mirror. "And I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Did my landlady see my dick or did I just dream that?"

 _Not a dream._  

"Thanks for that too. Really. Thanks." Brock climbed in the tub. "Stupid ghost." He slid under the water, immersing himself in the bubbles. Brock closed his eyes until something hit him. A _lot_ of somethings. The water splashed like it was boiling and Brock winced as hundreds of coins dropped into the tub from above. He covered his face with his hands as the change rained down upon him. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" When the hail of currency finally ceased, a lightly dazed Brock was sitting in about two inches of coins, mostly pennies. 

"Thanks a lot, asshole. I can't pay the rent in pennies." Brock scowled and let a handful of change run through his fingers. Jack slapped a large gold coin on Brock's forehead where it stuck for a few moments before dropping into the water. "What am I supposed to do with this?" It looked foreign and very old. 

 _Sell it, assho--_  Jack wrote in the fogged over mirror, running out of room to finish the insult. 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has a pretty gnarly death scene. Where do you think ghosts come from though?

Brock made two trips to the bank to count all the change in the bottom of his bathtub. That would take care of his groceries for the month and the utilities. He flipped the gold coin in his hand back at his apartment. "Where did you get all these coins?"

 _Saved them._  Jack scrawled. 

"Bullshit. You can't save coins from after you died. You stole them, didn't you?" Brock's phone lit up. Jack had typed in

 ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Brock seriously regretted showing the ghost how to use his phone. "Don't change the subject, asshole. You're not stealing from little old ladies in the building are you?" He put the phone away.

 _NO._ The marker squeaked.  _People lose change. Over seventy years, it adds up._  

"Sure, sure klepto. People don't just lose gold coins like this and not look for them." The room got suddenly chilly and Brock shivered, "Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a bunch. Sheesh!" He could see his breath in the air. "What got you all riled up?" Silence. 

Brock rolled his eyes and headed off to a rare coin shop. The owner had pretended to not be excited by the gold coin and offered him a six figure sum. Brock smiled and said that he'd think about it while nearly pissing himself in shock. He repeated this at two other shops, getting their estimates and smiling graciously. He was very careful returning home, making sure no one was following him. It might be paranoia, might just be caution. 

"Okay Jack. Where did you get this?" Brock slapped the coin down on the counter. "Apparently, I was carrying around in my pocket one of only _seventy-five_ minted Triple-Headed Golden Eagles. One of the coin dealers offered to give me his first born child in exchange for this coin and I don't think he was kidding!" 

 _Berlin, 1945._  

"Why didn't you give this to your family? Your niece could sure as hell use the extra scratch!" 

_Blood money._

"What? I don't understand." 

 _Died because of those coins._  

"Shit." Brock ran his hand through his hair. The coin didn't look nearly as shiny now. He didn't even want to touch it. "Wait, what do you mean  _coins_? How many of these do you have?" 

 _Twenty-nine, now_.

Brock's mouth fell open and he gawped like a landed fish. "Holy shit! How?"  

 _I gave you one._  

Brock buzzed his lips in a vulgar raspberry. "You know what I mean dipshit." 

_Too long to write._

Brock leaned back on the counter and crossed his arms. He tapped his foot and bit his lip. "So, are you gonna tell me or not?" 

_I could show you. Step in._

Brock blinked. Maybe it was easier if you knew the ghost was stepping in, maybe it wouldn't be so bad this time. Jack was an irritating asshat, but Brock wasn't afraid of him. Jack was more than fond of him, so fucking jealous all the time. Brock rubbed his arms and stomped off to the bedroom. "Okay, fine. But I'm laying down this time so I don't bruise my elbows. And you have to get the fuck out when I tell you to. This is my body, not your rental home. Got it, Jack?"

The lamp lifted and set down.  _YES._

"Well, do it. Just do it. No feeling me up. Stop dragging it out." Brock screwed his eyes shut tight. This time, there weren't any churning, whirling disorientating emotions. It felt like Brock was watching a tv show through someone else's eyes. Jack Rollins' eyes. 

He was crouching in a ditch, unwinding fuse to a batch of dynamite that would destroy the foundation of a German tower. He was quick and nimble for his size, a tight smile stretched across his lips. No teeth showed to flash in the dark. His fingers moved in a blur and when the job was done, he crawled out on his belly, hidden behind the brush. 

One of his squad,  _Vasquez,_ the name came to Brock unbidden, flashed a signal at him and Rollins pushed down on the detonator. The explosion was beautiful in the dark, perfectly placed to destroy the load bearing column on the western side. He did love his job. God bless America.

 _Anderson. Blackwell_ _._ His men. Quick with a laugh or a punch to the kidneys. Loyal and brave. Rollins loved them more than he should have, more than was allowed. Especially Vasquez, his best friend. But it was enough just to be with them, sharing the days, blowing shit up, and saving the world. 

Until they found the box. The box of gold coins in the basement of the abandoned castle high in the mountains.  Looting was not allowed and punishable by firing squad. But hadn't they risked life and limb? Didn't they deserve a little something to soothe the red, raw loss of the past years?

They drew straws to decide who would be the mule and risk getting caught. Rollins lost and sewed the coins into his uniform. He was the ranking officer since Captain Wallace lost his head in some razor wire back on Utah Beach. He felt that it was his responsibility. He would have done  _anything_ for them, all they had to do was ask.

They would all meet up after the war ended and split the goods once a few months had passed. Then they'd all get the house with the white picket fence and Rollins would pretend that he was happy with his lot in life and not slowly dying inside. He'd forget about clutching Vasquez to his chest in the dark, sharing kisses that were more like curses spat into the face of old Grim himself. His heart would stop aching and he'd be numb. Rich and numb. 

The war eventually ended and Jack found himself on the threshold of his family's new plot of land. They were building an apartment complex. Building something when the only thing Rollins knew how to do was making everything explode and come crashing down. He poured the foundation for the other side of the building, thick slabs of cement. It was very late and he was the only person on the site, but he was tired of telling the stories that he was allowed to tell to his family. He wanted to think about the secrets that he never could share. 

His uniform jacket was hidden in a crawl space in the new building. He could reach it with his long arms but no one else would be able to without knowing what they were looking for. He just wanted to keep it safe, his legacy, he wanted to see his men again. Take care of them, one last time.

"Sarge."

Rollins wiped his hands on his pants, responding to the name that no one called him any more. "Vasquez. I wasn't expecting to see you for a while." Brock felt the surge of affection and trust in Rollins.

His wartime lover grimaced, "Yeah, about that. We moved things up." 

"Where are the other guys?" Rollins asked, "We were all supposed to meet together. That's what we shook on."

Vasquez looked thinner, drawn tight and anxious. He shook his head. "They won't be coming, Jackie-boy." Rollins looked down at the gun in Vasquez's hand. "They decided that I should have their share. Now, let's have the coins." 

"Fuck off with that nonsense, Vasquez. God, I've missed you." Rollins wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached out to pull Vasquez in close. It was a very good kiss, firm and demanding. Brock's head swam with arousal and then... he looked down at his stomach. He hadn't even heard the gunshot, the blood was pounding so hard in his ears. 

Vasquez pushed him into the cement and poured the rest of the mixer on top of him. Brock was suffocating under the weight of the cement and he panted and thrashed and he screamed, "OUT OUT OUT!" before the cement filled his mouth.

And Jack stepped out of him. Brock started crying, he wept harder than he ever had before. His eyes were red and bloodshot when he popped the cap off of his last beer. He sat down on the couch and stared at the wall. 

 _Sorry._ Jack wrote on the board. 

Brock shook his head, took a swig. "This Vasquez bastard, if he is still alive... I'll kill him myself." He finished the beer. "Jack, how can I help? Do you want to be at peace? I mean, is there even a Heaven to go to?" 

 _I don't think I'd be welcome there._ Jack paused and then wrote,  _I'm happy when I'm with you._  

Brock nodded. "I think I'm going to need something a lot stronger than beer." 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Brock closed his eyes and tried not to gag on the phantom cock that filled his mouth, jabbed at the back of his throat. He gasped for breath and then lunged forward, choking himself. His eyes watered and tears dribbled out from the corners, but he swallowed hard. Rough fingers coiled in his hair and pulled. It felt so good, but it could have been better. He pulled back and whined, "Come on Jack, fuck me like you mean it, old man." That did the trick and Brock felt himself spiral into a state of blissful abandon, ectoplasm dribbled down his chin and oozed out of the corners of his lips. 

Someone pounded on the door and shook Brock out of his headspace. "What the fuck?" He stalked over to the door and looked out the peephole. It was Steve. 

"Oh shit." Brock wiped off his face with his shirt. He opened his door and the blond boy rushed in, followed by a hot brunette in a knit beanie cap. "Look, Steve, it's not a good time..."

"This is where it happened! Right here Bucky." Steve walked into Brock's bedroom and Brock prayed that there wasn't any ectoplasm on the bed. "Right here. It's all the same," Steve squinted, "But  _neater_. Did you get a maid?"

Steve's friend held out his hand. "I'm Bucky. Steve's boyfriend." His grip could have pulped Brock's fingers. 

"Look, dude, nothing happened." Brock protested. 

"Open relationship. I was overseas and Steve's a little hyper. So, this is where his close encounter of the third kind happened. Huh." Bucky looked around, "Rent controlled?" Brock nodded. "Nice. He's going to go around taking samples, if you don't mind. Can I sit?"

Brock nodded again, "So you're cool? We're cool?" He sat on the couch, Bucky took the chair.

"Like I said, open. Really, I'm just here to humor him. I figure when he can't find anything super spooky then he'll go back to being obsessed with other things, like me." He reached up to scratch his temple and Brock noticed that he had a metal hook instead of a left hand. "Oh this? Two tours in Afghanistan. No biggie. I'm the best back scratcher you could ever ask for." Brock liked Steve's boyfriend and he thought Rollins might too. He was certainly easy on the eyes.

"So Brock! I think I know how to get rid of your ghost! All we have to do is find his bones and burn them. I've been doing research." Steve sighed, "I'm not getting any vibes here. But I didn't make that up, I know what happened."

Brock licked his lips, they still tasted like Jack. "Let's say that I don't want to get rid of the ghost. Just hear me out. What if I've made friends with him?" He spread his hands and shrugged. 

Steve's brow furrowed, "Well first, that would be awesome. And second, totally crazy. The dead cannot be with the living." He intoned gravely. Brock noticed the air getting slightly chilly.

"I think that's from Beetlejuice, Steve." Bucky said lightly. "You're getting your movies mixed up with your research. Again." 

Steve threw up his hands in disgust. "Maybe? Oh fine. Can I use your bathroom, dude? It's a long train ride over here."

"Be my guest." Behave yourself Jack, he thought.

"I'm a little disappointed. I like the idea of ghosts, but I'm not a believer. It would be nice to see some guys again, you know?" Bucky shrugged and looked much older than he was for a moment. It wasn't something that Brock would have picked up on before Jack. Rollins had  _changed_ Brock as much as he was loathe to admit it. 

"Saw a lot of shit over there, didn't you?"

"My share of it." Bucky leaned his chin on his hand. "Steve left out something really important though."

"What's that?"

"You're fucking hot. Like, really hot. If you wanna get a drink sometime and see where things lead I'm totally up for--" Jack, who had been quiet as a mouse, pulled Bucky's knit cap over his eyes and spun the chair around three times fast.

When Bucky peeled the cap up from his eyes, Brock held up a finger against his lips. "Shh. He gets kinda jealous." 

"No shit?" Bucky whispered conspiratorially, "Sorry, I didn't know you were spoken for. I'd still like to hang out, just as friends, okay?" Jack fixed the knit cap, adjusting it until it was level. Bucky's eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. Brock reached over and pushed his jaw closed with a wink. "Are you two--  _dating_?" 

"I'm the best he's ever had." Brock put his arms behind his head and preened, until Jack smacked him in the face with a pillow. 

"Hey Brock?" Steve called out, "Why do you have a whiteboard with _Suck my cock you little punk!_ written on it in your bathroom?" 

"I-- write poetry. On the crapper. It's totally embarrassing, I can't believe you saw that." Brock lied unconvincingly.

Steve raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, he opened his mouth, but Bucky stood up. "Well I think that's enough for tonight. I'm totally up for hanging out if you want man." He half-guided, half-pushed Steve out the door. 

"You can come by _any time_." Brock leered as they left. _Wow_. "Can you imagine having both of them in bed with you? I wonder if that's part of their open deal? So hot." He wondered aloud, his cock tingling at the fantasy. "I wonder what a hook hand feels like.." 

When he stood up to lock the door, he tripped and fell over because Jack had tied his shoelaces together. "Motherfucker! It's a good thing you're dead because I will fucking _kill_ you for that."

The whiteboard from the bathroom floated in and dropped by Brock's face.  Jack slowly underlined,  _Suck my cock you little punk!_ and drew stars and tiny flowers around it.

Brock laughed until his stomach ached. "Come here Jackie-boy. I'll show you what a punk like me can do." 

It was the wrong thing to say, the temperature in the room plummeted and the white board snapped in half. "What? What did I--" Brock stopped and realized what he had said.  _Jackie-boy_ was what Vasquez had called Rollins. "Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it--" The door flew open and then slammed, as if Rollins had stormed out. He couldn't go very far, but Brock couldn't go calling for him like an escaped pet. 

"Stupid ghost." Brock muttered and pulled his knees to his chest. Maybe Steve was right...

  


	8. Chapter 8

Brock grabbed his laundry basket, counted out quarters and threw the detergent on top of the dirty clothes. He set his jaw and stomped down to the laundry room. The basement was lit by a bare bulb dangling from the rafters. It smelled like 20 different types of scented dryer sheets and a whiff of mildew.

Brock whistled loudly and dramatically dumped the whole basket in the washer. He was shoved aside and his laundry yanked back out, piece by piece. Lights and darks sorted themselves on the laundry table, Brock leaned against the washer, frowned and crossed his arms. Soon, a load of whites was churning in the machine.

Brock looked up at the flickering bulb and said, "So are you done now? Ready to come back upstairs?"

The detergent jug lifted and dropped twice. _NO_.

"So, you're just going to lurk down here? Haunting the laundry room?"

 _YES_.

He mashed his face with his hand and heaved an exasperated sigh, "You're incredible, you know that? If you had a body, I'd turn you over my knee and spank your ass pink." He remembered where he was after those rash words escaped his lips. The taste of blood and concrete filled his mouth and he had to choke back his bile. He covered his slip with a small sad smile.

Brock sat down on the single wooden chair. "So, this is where your body is buried, isn't it? Somewhere down in the cement." He leaned over and touched the cold cement floor. "I'm so sorry, you know that, don't you? I didn't mean to hurt you, it just slipped out. We were playing..."

 _YES_.

"I wish, I wish that wouldn't have happened to you. I'm not very good at saying these things, you bastard. I don't even know why you picked me to haunt. It couldn't have been my sparkling personality." Brock sighed, "It must have been my ass."

 _YES_.

"You've been watching me in the shower since I moved in, haven't you." Over a year ago. "Every jerk off session? All those one night stands?"

 _YES_.

Brock chuckled, "I would have done the same thing. Pervert." He huffed out his breath and tapped his fingers on the table top. 

He looked up at the bare bulb, a moth danced around it, battering its wings against the hot glass. "Jack, I don't care what Steve said..." He trailed off and redoubled his courage. "I wish I could have known you when you were alive, but can we just try to be enjoy each other now?"

He looked back down at the floor. "I don't really do the whole relationship thing. I don't think I've dated anyone for longer than a month. Except for you. Yeah, you big goon. Just admit it, we're dating. You're more than my undead fuck-buddy. I've met your family, seen your _baby_ pictures. You were an ugly kid, by the way. If you'd asked me to prom this would be such a fucking cliche."

"The first man that I actually fucking care about is _dead_." Brock rubbed his palms on his pants. "What does that say about me and commitment issues? Probably more than I want to admit." Silence. 

"Did you hear me? I care about you, you asshat. And when you break shit and run away, it makes me feel fucking awful." Brock sniffed. "And I am way too much of a selfish dick to be putting up with that crap. So," Brock slammed his fist against the table. "Don't do that shit to me! If you want me, here I _am_. I'm not going anywhere."

He caught his breath and swallowed hard. "This place is is rent controlled and I really like my landlady, she really knows how to cook. And you're here and you're fucking wonderful and terrible at the same time and I, I _felt_ _you_ _die_. I felt you die, Jack. You can't share that with me and _poof_ off anytime you get a bit pissed off with me."

The detergent jug toppled over and Jack wrote in the spill, SILENT TREATMENT?

"Okay, I deserved that, I don't play fair a lot of the time. I'm an _asshole_ , remember? But notice that I haven't done that in a long time. I like to talk to you, Jack. True, I do mostly talk at you, but you're such a good listener." Brock shrugged. "It's your call. I just can't do this hot and cold thing. It hurts. And I'm not a fan of pain."

STEP IN?

Brock spread his arms, "Sure buddy. Come on in. The water is fine. I'd rather not watch you die this time, okay?"

Brock closed his eyes and suddenly he was sitting in a wind swept green field, birds flew overhead and the sun was so warm on his shoulders. He sprawled out and enjoyed the stillness, the whisper of the wind tickled his ears. Rollins was remembering a random sunny day at his grandparent's farm. Brock could smell the sunshine and sweet damp grass, he looked up at the sky and counted the clouds.

He slipped his hand down the waistband of his pants and lazily stroked himself, No hurry, nothing to rush. Only the gentle rhythm of his fingers, coaxing and drawing out pleasure. He spat upon his palm and slipped his foreskin back, teasing himself until he could no longer bear it. He caught his release in his large hand and wiped it on the grass beside himself. The wind rustled the blades of grass and Rollins closed his eyes.

Brock gasped as the ghost stepped out of him. He leaned back and panted. Then he groaned, "I came in my pants. Damn it, Jack. What a mess." He grabbed a sock from the dirty clothes and tried to clean himself up. "That was really something, but why? Why did you need to show me that?"

I FEEL LIKE THAT WHEN I AM WITH YOU. The last letter trailed off the table in a soapy trail of scented detergent.

Brock sighed. "What am I going to do with you, man?" Warmth enveloped him, two strong arms and a face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. "We're so fucked up." But he still leaned into the warm of Jack's ghostly embrace and closed his eyes, he savored the caress of fingers in his hair and wished that he could kiss Jack. But that was impossible. Or was it?

An idea flickered in the back of Brock's brain. Maybe those pretty ghost hunters could come in handy after all...


	9. Chapter 9

"You want me to do _what_?" Bucky set his pint glass down on the bar counter. "I don't think I quite heard you." He inclined his head at Brock and raised an eyebrow. The music wasn't that loud, but the offer was bizarre enough to require a repeat proposition. 

Brock gave him his best cocky grin. "Um, come over to my place and have a threesome with Jack and I. I promise, it will be  _otherworldly_." He wriggled his fingers with his best razzle-dazzle.  _Come on boy, take the bait._  

Bucky snorted. "That goes without saying, doesn't it?" He traced the wet circle on his paper coaster with a finger. "You know, I'd have to tell Steve." He took another drink. 

"It's that kind of open relationship, is it? You tell each other all the dirty little bits? Kinda hot, I guess." 

"Yep. It's that kind. And you know he'd flip out. In a good way." Bucky tucked a piece of hair behind his ear and Brock had to bite his lip at the casual sexiness of that gesture. 

"Yeah, but Jack and Steve, they have... _history_." Steve was not part of the plan, but if he was the cost of admission for this crazy plan to work then so be it. Brock still wanted to see him naked and spread out wide underneath him, but the yearning wasn't nearly as sharp as before. Damn it, he was whipped. Ghost-whipped.   

"Well, talk to your ghost pal and see if he can get over it." That was a tentative  _yes_  and Brock fought the urge to do a fist pump of triumph. _Play it cool, play it cool._

"What exactly can I expect from your ghost? He's not going to make the bed spin around or start puking up pea soup, is he?" Bucky's eyes sparkled with curiosity. Oh, he was well and truly hooked. Such a kinky little boy. 

"No! Good lord, no. He might... _borrow_ your body for a little bit. I call it _stepping in._ It's actually kinda fun, a real rush." When you weren't watching someone you loved get murdered. Wait, he didn't  _love_ Jack. That was just a figure of speech. A slip of the tongue. God, Brock would love to slip his tongue into those lips. For a moment, the owner of said lips was in question. It had to be the booze. 

"So you've done it before." Bucky asked, shocking Brock back into the present. 

"Yup." He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out several copies of Ms. Rollins' photos. He tapped on a particularly fetching portrait of Jack with his hair loose in his face, shirt unbuttoned and leaning against a shovel. "This is my Jack. Back in the day." Then a photo of Jack in full uniform, looking like he could take on all the Nazis by himself and win.  _My Jack_. Brock didn't show Bucky the last photo of baby Jack scowling at the camera. That one was just for him. 

"Wow. He was big. Do you think there's enough room inside me?" Bucky grinned cheekily at Brock over the rim of his pint glass. 

Brock winked. "I think you could handle it. I'd let you handle me anytime." 

"Does that line actually work?" Bucky snorted. 

"More often than not. But I don't like to brag." Brock flicked his fingernail against his scotch glass. "So, are you in?" 

Bucky nodded with a lazy smile. "You know, I'm going to get my ass chewed for not telling him sooner." 

"Try to sell it. You were in shock." 

"I was indeed." 

"You were overcome with wonder and fear about the great beyond!" 

"That's a little thick." 

"That's what he said." Brock snorted at his terrible joke. "Sorry, can't help myself." 

"What does that ghost see in you?" 

"Well, it's not my sense of humor, for sure."

"Or your body spray." Bucky wrinkled his nose at Brock's expression of dramatic wounding. 

Bucky finished his beer. "Actually, I want to try this when I'm not naked first. Take me back to your place so I can talk to Jack... face to face. I'm not too keen on body possession on the first date now that I think about it." 

"Deal. I'll get the check." Brock's heart pounded in his chest with anticipation. This was really going to happen. He tried to keep his smile friendly, when all he wanted to do was crow with excitement. "He really is a sweet guy. Okay, he's an asshole, but no worse than I am. That really doesn't put me in the best light, does it?" 

"Nope. But fortunately, I have an unfortunate weakness for assholes." They both cracked up and Bucky squeezed Brock's knee. "Let's have a little adventure. You only live once, right?"

Brock sighed to himself as he got up to pay the bill. _That was the whole fucking problem, wasn't it?_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is WAY too nice to Brock.


	10. Chapter 10

"Okay, just give me a moment to warm him up." Brock patted Bucky on the shoulder, he felt the doorknob and it was so cold that his fingertips nearly stuck to it.  _Oh goddamn it._ _  
_

"Jack. Jack you goddamn prick." Brock's teeth were chattering. "If-if-if you make it snow in here you'll ruin the fucking carpet and my security deposit! I'll rat you out to your niece and you can deal with her! You got me?" The temperature warmed slightly.  "Now listen here. I didn't bring him home to fuck him. I mean, not yet. He's here for you, you giant jealous asshole." 

 _Me?_   Jack scrawled on the whiteboard. 

"Yeah, he wants to talk to you. Get to know you. Before you borrow his body to fuck the living shit out of me." Brock leaned back against the counter.  "Does that sound like something you can fucking behave for? Can you do this for me? We talked about this. This is our chance. Don't you want to smell me? To taste me? Who knows, maybe I'd even bend you over this couch and fuck you so sweet and slow that you thought you'd finally gone to Heaven. Do you think you can do that? Is that worth not acting like a jealous, possessive prick?" 

There was a very long pause, Brock held his breath. _YES_. 

"Good. Good. Because I want this so fucking bad, Jack. So fucking bad." He pointed at the air and waved his hands, "Warm it up in here, behave yourself. Do it for _me_." The air became practically tropical. "Tone it down, Spooky. _Jesus_."  

Brock opened the door. Bucky leaned against the frame with a raised eyebrow. "So, can I come in?" 

" _Mi casa es su casa_. Have a seat." His grin would have suited an airline hostess, his gestures certainly did. 

Bucky sat on the couch and Brock set a whiteboard on his lap. "So, um, one knock for  _yes_ and two for  _no._ Longer things are what the boards are for."

"I figured you weren't really writing poetry on the crapper." 

"Roses are red, violets are blue. I'm hung like a horse, but you knew that too." Brock ad libbed and a pillow caught him in the face. "Okay fine, you asshole, let's see if you can do any better!" 

Bucky looked down at the white board, took a deep breath and asked, "Hi Jack. I'm Bucky and this is the craziest thing I've ever done aside from that one mission where we forgot the parachutes. Do you wanna know anything about me first?" He licked his lips and stared wide-eyed as the marker wrote a question. 

 _Your mother named you that?_ Brock sighed, Jack had no manners at all.  

Their guest grinned, "No. That's my nickname. My real name is James. What's your nickname?"

 _Sarge._  Brock rubbed his temple, he'd been getting headaches lately. Probably just Jack related stress. He hadn't had much luck finding a job either. The idea of selling that coin made him taste blood and cement. Jack wouldn't take it back or hide it either. Such a prick. 

Bucky snapped off a salute, "Pleasure to meet you Sarge." He said to Brock, "This is so fucking cool." 

Brock held back the urge to ruffle Bucky's hair. What had gotten into him lately? He was turning into a huge pansy, all tears and soft edges. "So, um, I'll let you chat and go, um, do something." 

 _Dishes._  Jack wrote. 

Brock threw up his hands. "Okay, fine smart ass. It's not like you eat on them or anything, jesus! And I haven't run out. There's still like a week's worth in the cabinet." He stalked back the kitchen and pulled on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, ran a sink full of hot water and suds. The soap made his hands itch. He slowly scrubbed a plate, listening to the one-sided conversation. 

"Nah, it's not like that. He's my best friend and my boyfriend. He just likes a little variety and really, so do I. But we're two sides of the same coin. Been that way since we met in elementary school." Bucky laughed, "So what do you see in Brock there? Oh. That's cool." 

Brock couldn't stand it. He rushed over to read Jack's answer, he left a trail of water drips and soap suds on the floor. 

 _Full of life._   _Fantastic ass._

"Good answers, Jack. But you're still not sleeping in my bed tonight." Bucky wrinkled his brows in confusion. "I don't like sleeping in the wet spot. Ectoplasm. Buckets of the stuff." Brock strutted back to the sink, humming to himself a wordless tune in satisfaction. _Yup, I have a fantastic ass. Don't I know it._  

He started to lose himself in the mundanity of washing dishes. Squeaky clean. One of these days, he'd be able to afford a dishwasher. But that would mean moving out. He scrubbed harder at days old egg yolk. He'd just have to do the dishes more often. Moving out wasn't an option. _Ever_. 

Featherlight kisses upon the nape of his neck, dusted into the hollow beneath his ear. Hot breath against his cheek. Brock gulped.  "Very funny, Bucky.  I am armed with a scrub brush, soldier. Are yellow rubber gloves a kink of yours?" His guest suckled harder on the side of his throat and Brock dropped the scrub brush in the sink with a splash of suds. "You're going to get your ass dumped in the hallway. Control yourself," he protested.

"I can't with you." Bucky growled against his neck and ground himself against Brock's ass. 

"Bullshit. Now stop, you're giving me a fucking hard on and that's not cool, Bucky." Brock whimpered. 

Two little words that changed everything. " _Not_ _Bucky_." 

Brock whipped around, his wet yellow-gloved hands clutched at Bucky's shirt, he asked in a hoarse whisper, " _Jack?"_

Bucky smiled with a hunger in his eyes too old and intense to belong to someone as young as he was. It was Jack. Jack was holding him. "Oh my god. It works. I can't believe it. You're, you're here. You--" Jack put his hand behind Brock's head and kissed him. When Jack finally pulled back, Brock was breathless and panting.

"You talk too much, Brock." 

Brock nodded silently and clung to Jack for a moment, just listening to the beat of a borrowed human heart. Jack tilted up Brock's chin and kissed him again, he savored every second. He wiped off the tears leaking out of Brock's eyes, ran his fingers through Brock's thick dark hair and embraced him. Brock tried to hold back his sobs, but he couldn't. Jack held him close and it was so good. So sweet. So short.

Brock could tell the exact moment when Jack stepped out of Bucky's body and his heart ached from the loss. "Yeah. It's me. I mean, Bucky." The young man looked at him with sympathy and Brock felt torn between punching him in the throat for witnessing his weakness or kissing his goddamned feet in gratitude. "I think I should go. It's late." 

"Thanks man." Brock said weakly, he was trembling and he leaned back against the sink to steady himself.  

"Most fun I've had in ages with my pants on. So, we'll have to try _that_ next time." Bucky shyly looked at his feet, not sure how to deal with an obviously distraught Brock. 

"It's a date." Brock managed and showed his guest to the door. "Really, thank you." Bucky shrugged like it was no big deal and walked down the hall, whistling. 

Brock shut the door and slid down it. He sat on the floor and ripped off his gloves one at a time. He pulled his knees to his chest and let the tears flow down his cheeks. "Fuck. Fuck.  _Fuck._ " He cursed at time, space and the unfairness of fate.

Warmth surrounded him, Jack tried to wipe off his tears but left a smear of ectoplasm on Brock's cheek. "I-- I don't talk too much, you asshole! Jesus." It wasn't what he really wanted to say, but everything was too red and raw inside his chest. His head hurt too.

Stupid head. Stupid heart. Stupid fucking ghost. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT WAS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE CRACK GUYS. WHAT HAPPENED!?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Terminal illness

Brock sprawled on his bed and looked at his dwindling account balance. He was going to have to find a job soon. "God damn it." His head hurt, stabbing behind his eyes. Probably needed to go to the doctor too. With what money? He didn't have insurance. His stomach lurched and he stumbled over to the bathroom, losing the contents of his stomach in the toilet. 

 _Did I get you pregnant?_ Jack wrote on the bathroom whiteboard. Brock flipped him off and puked a second time. _See a doctor._

"Can't afford it." Brock held up his hand, "If you pelt me with spare change, I'll fucking kill you again, got it?" He really needed to clean this toilet. 

A single coin spun on its rim, a golden flickering globe, then it wobbled on the tile and lay flat.  _SELL IT._

"No." Brock wiped his mouth off on some toilet paper and flushed it. "I don't want to." Every time he saw that coin, he thought about Jack's death. Brock wasn't the type to wallow in needless pain. He stood up and looked in the mirror. 

 _SELL IT. SEE A DOCTOR. FOR ME. DO IT FOR ME._ Underlined, twice. 

Brock sighed, turned on the tap and rinsed out his mouth. "Is that what you want?" 

_Yes. Stubborn jackass._

Brock picked up the coin and put it in his pocket. "Fine. But just because I hate puking, that's it? Just this once." He scowled and made his way to the coin dealer who wasn't too attached to his firstborn child. Brock's mouth set in a thin vicious smile. And there was something else he could do with this money too. 

A little payback. 

\--

The sun dipped low on the skyline and Brock took a seat on a park bench beside a frail old man feeding pigeons. He leaned forward, rested his arms on his legs and said, "Really beautiful day, isn't it?" 

"Yes." The man looked at Brock's red, swollen eyes warily. "Are you alright, son?"

"I think the answer to that is one hundred and fifty percent  _no._ Got some bad news today that I wasn't expecting." Birdseed flew and scattered on the cement. "Been having these headaches, like deep in the center of my brain. Finally came into some money and got to see a doctor. They shoved me in a machine and told me that I've got a golf-ball sized aneurysm right in the middle of my melon. They can't operate on it, can't tell me when it will pop, can't really tell me shit except _sorry."_ Brock sat up, put his elbows on the back of the bench and looked up at the clouds in the sky. "Let's make that two hundred percent  _no._ " 

The man stopped scattering seed, "That's awful. You're so young." He offered Brock a handful of birdseed. 

"Young, dumb and full of cum. Yeah, it sucks when you don't get the chance to live out your life. I better make what I have left count. What's your name again?" Brock took the offering and let it fall through his fingers from hand to hand. 

"Call me Vasquez." 

Brock ground the birdseed between his finger tips. "I've got a friend who served with a Vasquez. What was your unit?" 

"Do you have a lot of old men as friends?" Vasquez's eyes narrowed. "32nd Naval Scouts and Raiders. There's not a lot of us still around. What's your friend's name?"

"Oh you'd know him if you saw him. 'Bout 6 ft 3, built like a fucking tank. Has a scar right here on his face from catching the business end of a mule whip." The bag of birdseed started to shake in Vasquez's hands. "He's stupid stubborn but you can't help who you fall in love with," Brock's voice lowered and his tone turned nasty. "Now can you?"

Vasquez tried to stand up but Brock put his hand on the old man's shoulder and pressed him back down. "Now I might have a fucking time bomb in my skull, but I can still take you on, so you sit down and you listen. Got it?" Brock smiled with all his teeth and patted Vasquez on the shoulder when he sat back on the bench. 

"You're crazy. Jack's dead." Hearing Jack's name from his murderer's lips made any mercy left in Brock's heart wither.

"Yeah, he is. And that's your fucking fault, isn't it?" Brock sneered. "He saved your life countless times. You told him that you loved him in the trenches outside of Berlin. Told him that you'd always be there for him. You butchered him."

"How do you? Nobody knows-- Jesus Christ. It was an accident!"  Vasquez clutched the bag of birdseed to his chest and shook like a leaf. "I just, I just wanted the coins. I needed the money!"

"Some accident." Brock pulled out the receipt from the rare coin dealer. "Guess how I came into the funds that let me finally see a doctor? No?" He held out the paper. "Just read the receipt." Vasquez went white with shock,  "Yup, I sold one of those gold coins that you murdered Jack for. I used some of it to find you, so I could tell you what a bastard you are." Brock hissed, "He loved you, you sick fuck. " 

Vasquez tried to stand and Brock kicked at the side of his ankle with his boot. "Knock it the fuck off. Do you know what it feels like to bleed out and suffocate at the same time? The taste of concrete and blood in your mouth, gagging for air? Well, I _do_. I saw what happened. And I will never forget. Jack showed me."

Vasquez babbled, "We couldn't-- I'm not a fag! I'm not! And Jack's dead. He's dead. He's dead..." Tears welled up in his eyes and Brock held back the urge to slap them off his wrinkled face. 

"So he keeps telling me, but he's still the best lay I've ever had." Brock looked back up at the sky, "See, I'm not too upset by what's going on up here," he tapped his head with a finger. "Because I know Jack Rollins is waiting for me on the other side. Now you, on the other hand, should be very upset because Jack is waiting for you there, too. And he hasn't forgiven you. Not at all."

Vasquez crossed himself and started mumbling a prayer. 

Brock stood up, put his hands in his pockets and smirked. "I'd take your vitamins and try to live as long as you can, Vasquez. You can pray for forgiveness, but Jack doesn't seem like the religious kind. And I'm sure as hell not going to forgive you. I'll be waiting for you Vasquez. We both will." 

He strode off and dialed his landlady, "Tansy? So how about I take you out for dinner? Do you like Italian? Yes, of course you can dress up, we both will. Yeah, we both look great all fancied up. 'Bout 7, okay? See you then." You couldn't ask someone to be your next of kin without at least buying them dinner. It was just the gentlemanly thing to do. Brock whistled a cheerful tune and didn't look back once at the stunned old man staring at his back, pigeons surrounding him. 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

"Mrphfffpht!" Brock said around a mouthful of toothpaste. He spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth. "I said, Bucky and Steve are coming over in like an hour. Did you not hear me the first twenty times?" He combed his hair back and made it just right. 

BUT I HAVEN'T CLEANED. Jack scrawled on the whiteboard. 

Brock shrugged, "I don't think they're here to do an inspection, Jack. The only thing that really needs to be clean is  _me_ , if you catch my drift." He smirked and winked at the mirror.

Socks flew in the air and a small cyclone of laundry got shoved in his dirty clothes basket. Brock watched the bed make itself, the corners crisp and as inviting as an intensive care ward. Brock swallowed and resisted the urge to touch his forehead. "Really Jack, they're just coming over to have a little fun. Steve's promised to be on his best behavior, he just wants to watch."

Brock sat on the edge of the bed and Jack lifted his feet high in the air, then pivoted him so his feet were on the bed. Brock laid back and looked at the ceiling while Jack attacked the innocent dustbunnies under the bed. "It's better than you making it like a freezer in here, I guess." He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. "Wake me up when they're here, I'm sure you'll keep yourself busy in the meantime."

One of the pillows dropped upon his gut much harder than it needed to be. "Hey, hey now. I'm a delicate creature." Brock chided then Jack pulled at the toes of his socks, making them sag. Brock just wriggled his toes and smiled. "I wasn't planning to keep any of this on very long, you know?" 

The doorbell rang. Brock padded off to answer the door. He could see his breath. "Jack, come on dude, don't be nervous. It's just Bucky, you've been inside him. You lucky dog. Remember?" The room warmed and Brock opened the door. "Come on in! Looking good."

Bucky looked Brock up and down, with a sly grin. "Well thanks." He curled his arm around a very nervous Steve and walked in. 

"Hi." Steve said, his eyes darting all over the apartment. "Um. Please don't throw me out." 

Brock scratched his head, "About that... Jack, don't you have something you want to say?" Brock tapped on a whiteboard.

Very slowly and somewhat reluctantly, the words _Sorry for being a prick_ appeared and Steve's face lit up as if Santa Claus had just come down the chimney. 

"Oh my god. Oh my god." He gibbered and grabbed onto Bucky's arm. "It's all true. Oh my god." 

Bucky ruffled his hair and smiled, "It gets so much better, Steve. Why don't you sit down and watch?" Bucky unzipped his hoodie and hung it up, the tank top underneath hid very little and Brock chewed on the inside of his lip.  _Damn._ You hardly noticed the prosthetic arm when those muscles were on display.  _Hot damn._ "You know you like to watch, babe." 

"Well, are you going to wait for an engraved invitation, Jack? Come on in." Bucky's whole body shivered, his fist clenched and relaxed as the ghost took control of his body. He took a deep breath and looked up through his thick lashes at Brock, his lips curled in a hungry smile.

Brock's mouth opened and shut several times as he gawked, "Wow. So that's what it looks like. Doesn't look too--" Bucky lunged at Brock, pinned him to the couch and kissed him with a low growl in his throat. He ran his hand through Brock's hair and sucked a mark into the side of Brock's throat. Brock wrapped his legs around Bucky's waist and groaned. "God damn it. God damn it." 

"Um," Steve coughed, "Bucky?" 

" _Not... Bucky._ " Jack said as he nuzzled Brock's throat, reached back and kneaded Brock's thickening cock through his track pants. "Don't worry boy, you'll get your turn." He pushed Brock's shirt up and Brock wriggled out of it. Jack grimaced, "Too cramped. On to the bed with you." He slapped Brock's flank. "Move it!"

Brock snapped a mock salute as he lazily stood up and got tossed over Jack's shoulder for his trouble. "Ooof!" He gasped out as Jack hauled him into the bedroom, grabbing a handful of firm ass and kneading it. Steve blinked owlishly as his boyfriend that he'd known since childhood acted like a completely different person. Jack heaved Brock onto the bed, smacking his head on the headboard. "Ow. Take it easy with the noggin," he complained. "I keep telling you, I'm _delicate_."

Jack snorted and turned back to Steve. "Get over here and help me get this _delicate_ creature undressed. That's an  _order._ " Jack barked and Steve snapped into action. Socks flew one after the other and soon Steve had Brock as bare as the day he was born. He crouched on the foot of the bed awaiting his next task. Jack stood over him and unbuckled his belt. "Good work, son. Now why don't you help me out of these trousers." 

Steve nodded, crawled over the bed to where Jack stood and undid Jack's fly with nimble fingers. Brock watched as Steve used his lips to pull down Jack's underwear and he raised an eyebrow at what was unleashed. That was more than a mouthful of cock right there, Brock squirmed uncomfortably on the bed at the thought of _that_ inside him. Size queen, he was not. That was fine, he could spin this. "Bet you've never sucked off a ghost before." Brock challenged, stroking himself languidly. "Bet you can't do it." 

Steve didn't hesitate, ghost or not, he knew that cock. The length, the heft, the taste and smell of Bucky's skin. Soon, Jack was panting, winding his fingers in Steve's hair as Steve sucked him. Little guy had a point to prove. Jack was practically fucking his throat, moaning incoherent epithets of bliss.

Brock stood up and slunk over behind Jack, "Go on, fuck his mouth. He's gagging for it. We both want you so bad Jack," he whispered in his ear, then ran his hands over Jack's borrowed body. He pinched a nipple and Jack bucked hard enough to make Steve pull back and then redouble his efforts. Brock played with Jack's scrotum, tugged on it while biting at the crook of Jack's neck and that was enough to push Jack over the edge. Brock held him as he came in Steve's mouth. Steve swallowed and dribbles of semen leaked out of the corners of Steve's lips as Jack shook and thrust.

Before Steve could wipe his mouth, Jack caught his hand interlaced their fingers, then leaned over and kissed Steve. He smiled gratefully and said, "You did well, son." 

Then Jack wasn't _there_ anymore. Brock knew well before Steve did from the change in Bucky's posture and sat back on the bed, he felt cheated somehow. 

Bucky blinked and made a sour face, smacking his lips. "Ew. Cum lips."

Steve swatted at Bucky and frowned, "The ghost was more polite." 

"The ghost might share your cum-play thing, but I don't. You know that." Buck sat on the bed, heavily. "That was so hot, but I feel like I ran a marathon. I am  _beat."_

"What's it like? Being possessed?" Steve asked with intense curiosity. 

"I don't think I can explain it very well." Bucky yawned. "Brock is not easy to carry around. I am going to be so sore." He retreated to the armchair in the corner. 

"I think I know how you find out, Steve." Brock leered, "Wanna invite Jack to step inside you? Such an opportunity," he purred as he stroked a hand down his chest.  

"Hell yes. I um, I invite you to step inside me, Jack. You know-- if you want to-. I mean I don't want to make this weird or anyth--." Steve's words cut off as he rolled his head and cracked his neck. He shucked his clothes and damned if that little twink of a man didn't look like he was about to break Brock in half. But not with his dick, thank god for average-sized boners.  

"Welcome back." Brock smirked. "Thought you'd given up-- the ghost." 

"He talks almost as much as you do," Something about that commanding voice coming out of tiny Steve made Brock's cock harder. Jack pulled at his ankles with strength that didn't make sense coming from Steve's small body. He smacked Brock on the ass as he flipped him over and Brock made a squawk of protest.

Jack licked and nibbled at Brock's skin, savoring the salt, the heat and the wetness. "I wanna feel you under me. Taste every inch of you." Jack trailed his tongue down Brock's spine, lapped at the base of his spine and groaned. "Spread 'em." He kneaded the flesh of Brock's thighs. 

"Oh really?" Brock blustered, color hot in his cheeks. Bucky was still watching. Watching him spread his cheeks like a cheap slut. "Look at how fucking _nasty_ you are, Spooky." Brock grinned and gasped as Jack rimmed him until he writhed, his cock leaking all over the bedspread. 

"Well, I'm not using  _my_  own tongue, now am I?" Jack said against his skin, face wet with spit. 

Bucky laughed from his chair, probably still tasting his own cum from that kiss. "Serves him right." 

Jack worked his fingers inside of Brock and crooned, "Look at you. So fucking amazing. You're all mine, I've marked you. You're always going to be mine..." He looked over at Bucky, "So god damned pretty. See why I got all crazy when he'd bring home guys? I had to look at him like this and know that I _never_ could have him. Mine. All mine." 

"What if I--" Brock gasped, "Got hit by a bus. What would you do then?" He smooshed his face into the pillow to stifle his slutty moans. This was so much better than he'd hoped. 

"I'd lure you away from the Pearly Gates because there's no such thing as Heaven without you..."

Bucky handed Jack a condom and Jack ripped it open with his teeth, slid it on. Bucky drizzled lube on Jack's fingers. "Much obliged." Jack said, twisting his fingers inside Brock just to watch him try to squirm away. Bucky shrugged as if it was no big deal and went back to his chair, he watched with lazily slitted eyes that missed nothing.

So, Steve wasn't the only one that liked to watch, Brock thought. 

"That was the cheesiest line I've ever heard and I'm not going to Heaven, Jack." Brock whispered. That was for good people, not guys like him. 

"Then I'd drag your sweet ass from Hell itself and spit in Satan's fucking eye." He slid into Brock with a slow thrust and gripped Brock's hips hard enough to bruise. "I told you. You're mine. In this life-" He punctuated each word with a thrust, "Or- the- next!" That declaration made Brock's mind white out in bliss, he rolled his hips, rutted into the bed spread uttering wordless phrases. "I'm gonna fuck you so sweet, so good. Ruin you for other men. Say it. Say you're _mine_." 

"You're- not- THAT good!" Brock bucked back against him, taking his pleasure. "You're gonna have to work a lot fucking harder for me to say that shit, dead man."  Brock got up on his knees on the bed, exposing his cock. "Hey Bucky? Lend a hand?"

Bucky rolled his eyes and sighed, "You just had to, didn't you?" He squirted a gob of lube into his palm and jacked Brock's dick with firm strokes while watching the body of his boyfriend fuck into Brock as if it were his last act on Earth. 

Brock laughed and nodded, "I _did_. I _did_." His eyes rolled back in bliss, his pulse pounded in his ears as his orgasm roared through him. If he dropped dead right now, he'd be okay with that. Well, it would suck for the other guys, he reluctantly conceded as he lay panting on the bed. He was supposed to keep his blood pressure down, but fuck it. He'd never give this up, he'd never felt more alive. 

"Oh. Oh. Yesss." Jack hissed through Steve's clenched teeth as he shook and spasmed upon Brock. He kissed Brock's cheek tenderly and hugged him one last time. "One day, you'll say it. I promise you that." Brock smirked in response. "Smart ass."

Then he was _gone_.  

Steve collapsed upon Brock in a sweaty pile of tangled limbs and looked around, confused. "Bucky?" He murmured and his boyfriend came to his side, petted his hair. "Holy shit." Steve said in a daze. "Every muscle in my body feels like water." He pulled off the condom and tied it in a knot, dropped it in the trash can beside the bed.

"See what I mean? Like you've run a marathon." Bucky sat on the bed and stroked Steve's hair. "You were amazing." Steve leaned into his touch and Brock felt acutely jealous that Jack wasn't there to do the same thing. 

"Pfft. You didn't even get the interesting bruises." Brock pointed at the fingermarks on his hips. "Now get over here, I wanna nap and be the filling in this sexy sandwich." The three of them curled up on Brock's bed and dozed off with Brock snoring like a buzzsaw.  

Steve rolled off the edge of the bed in his sleep and stopped mid-fall, hovering inches above the floor. Jack put him back into the bed and tucked the blankets tightly around the three men. He folded their clothes neatly and stacked them on the dresser. Three fluffy towels were stocked in the bathroom with a fresh bar of soap and on the whiteboard, he wrote  _Thank you. Please come again._

As an afterthought, he underlined it twice and added some flowers. 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

The doorbell rang and Brock was greeted by his landlady who was holding a bag of cat food and a carrier that was growling. "Brock. Remember to feed Elvis only twice a day. He'll beg for more, but you have to be strong." Brock took the carrier and it shook in his hands. He looked inside the carrier at a huge black shorthaired cat that was missing an eye and most of his left ear. 

"Looks more like _Fat_ Elvis to me." Brock set the carrier down. 

She frowned, "Hush! You'll hurt his feelings. Now I'll be back in a week, take care of the building for me. Jack knows the place better than I do. I think it might snow. Be sure to salt the sidewalks. And are you taking your medicine, young man?" Tansy grabbed his face in a bony hand and examined him closely. "I put all the pills in the right order in your organizer. If there's one thing I know, it's taking medication." 

Brock rolled his eyes and pulled out of her strong grip. "I am, I am. I'm taking my," he made a face, " _Vitamins_." 

Tansy nodded, "Well, good, just because you've written me into your will doesn't mean I plan on collecting any time soon." The air in the apartment suddenly got colder and Brock made a frantic stop gesture with his hands. 

 _What will?_ Jack wrote on a whiteboard that hovered near Brock's head. 

Tansy's mouth dropped open. "Oh-- you haven't told him yet? _Brock,_ " she said in disapproval. 

 _Haven't told me what yet?_   Jack's writing was rapidly devolving into chicken scratch.

Brock could see his breath now. He patted Tansy on the shoulder and gently pushed her out into the hallway. "You're going to miss your flight, Tansy and you've been looking forward to Florida so much--" _Ohshitohshitohshit._

"I'm only going to Delaware, Brock. You were listening, right? How many times do you feel Elvis?" 

"I'm not going to kill your cat," Brock mashed his face with his hand, "I'm more worried about what he'll do to me if I don't feed him. Trust me Tansy, you have a good time." Brock went to shut the door, but she jammed her suitcase in the frame. 

"Talk to him, Brock. He's got to know. It's not good to keep secrets." She pulled out her bag and set off, leaving Brock to his fate.

The hair on the back of Brock's neck stood up and gooseflesh prickled up and down his arms. He looked at the whiteboard and saw  _YES. IT'S NOT GOOD TO KEEP SECRETS._

"If I tell you, you have to promise to not freak out." It was getting even colder and the walls started to shake. 

_I promise._

_Lying sack of ghost shit,_  Brock thought. "I don't believe you. Not one bit. But, whatever. So, I've got this _thing_ in my head, like a weak spot in a rubber hose. I'm on these pills help stop it from going... pop." A snowglobe that Tansy had given him fell off the shelves. Brock winced.

_Can they fix you?_

Brock shook his head. "'Fraid not." His teeth began to chatter. 

ARE YOU SURE?

"Trust me. I didn't just believe the first doctor I talked to." The room stopped trembling suddenly and Brock took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn't going so badly after all. "You're taking this remarkably well. I thought you might really freak out, make the walls bleed or some shit like that."

YOU ARE DYING?

Brock shrugged, "Well, we all are dying a little bit each day, aren't we? Except for you. But I might just get there a little quicker than I was planning to."

In a whirlwind of blankets, Brock found himself wrapped up too tightly to squirm free, only his head and feet stuck out of the shroud. "The fuck is this!?" He tipped over, losing his balance and before he smacked face-first into the floor, Jack caught him. Brock got dumped onto the couch with an indignant squawk. He tried to wriggle free, but Jack held him there, pinned to the couch like a blanket mummy. 

"You let me go. Right fucking now, Jack." Brock demanded. 

Two crashes of the coffeemaker. NO.

"Fine. You pout like a goddamn baby, I'll just... I'll just take a fucking nap. Okay? Fine!" Brock closed his eyes, it wasn't too terrible being swaddled like a giant infant, he wasn't cold anymore. Good thing he wasn't claustrophobic. He'd just let Jack work through his temper tantrum and then they'd be back to normal. Well, as normal as you could get with a ghost... Brock dozed off as Jack reorganized the bookshelf with extreme prejudice. 

A heavy thud on Brock's groin shocked him awake. "Yo, Fat Elvis." The black cat curled up and started kneading the blanket, a purr rumbled through Brock's bones. "Yup, that's my bladder you're laying on, you fuzzy bastard. What did she feed you? Rocks?" Elvis stared at Brock though a half-lidded green eye and yawned. "Jack, really?" 

DO NOT MOVE.

"You have to let me up to pee." Especially with a 20 pound cat on his gut.  

MAYBE. IF YOU ARE TELLING THE TRUTH ABOUT NEEDING TO PISS. Brock rolled his eyes. 

"At least turn the tv on." Jack flicked on the television to a fat white man talking to two trashy people about _honesty._ "Oh fuck you Rollins." Brock watched anyway. He was sure that the girl was not telling the truth about that baby's paternity and he hooted along with the audience when the deception was revealed. "You are not the daddy!"

During a commercial break, Brock asked, "Hey, can you possess the cat?"

NO. 

"Just asking." He sighed, "Are you going to let me get up?" Stubborn old goat.

NO. 

"You can't just keep me like this. You can't shovel the sidewalk and you don't want one of the old biddies to break a leg, now do you? I promised your niece." Brock tried to roll off the couch, but Elvis' claws came out far too close to Brock's dick. "This is a matter of honor. And we are honorable men," he pleaded with a straight face. 

FUCK YOU.

"Fine, I cribbed that from a movie, but _this_ is why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd freak the fuck out. And really, I've made my peace with the whole death thing. I could slip on the soap in the shower and crack my head open. I could step in front of a bus. I could eat bad macaroni salad." He gritted his teeth, "And I really have to fucking piss, you asshole."

_I don't know what I would do without you._

"Well, I'd be with you, wouldn't I?" He felt Jack pet his hair, stroke his cheek.

_I have no idea. I don't know how this works. I never planned on being like this._

"Huh. Well, I guess we'll find out together then." Brock closed his eyes, "They say it's really quick. I won't feel anything when it pops." He laughed dryly. "I wonder who they interviewed about _that_ though. Probably a bunch of bullshit to make me feel better, but you know what? I'll take it. Because I know what's _not_ bullshit, Jack.  Now let me out of these blankets so I can live what little life I have left with you." The blankets loosened and Brock pushed Elvis off onto the floor. The cat protested with a harsh mew and then hopped back on to the couch beside Brock. Brock worked feeling back into his fingers and toes. 

ANY OTHER SECRETS? 

Brock shook his head. "Nothing of any importance. Although I did cheat on my third grade spelling test." A pillow hit him in the face. "Oh get over here, you big baby." Warmth surrounded Brock and he closed his eyes, leaned into Jack's spectral embrace. Elvis didn't move, he was obviously used to Jack. "I'm not going anywhere, babe. I'm not. You're stuck with me and my shoes that I never put where they need to go. I love you, you stupid motherfucker." Brock felt ghostly kisses upon his lips and he parted them, wishing that he could feel more. But this was enough, warm hugs on a wintery morning, his conscience clear. 

Well, mostly clear. 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Brock huffed out his breath in a cloud, his nose was numb and he stomped his booted feet in the snow. He'd promised to shovel the sidewalks, he grumbled, next time he wouldn't put it off until it got so late. But there'd been the make-up sex and the clean up afterwards, and soon it was too late to put off anymore. There was no one else out there to watch him fall on his ass four times, so that was a bonus.  

He pushed the shovel, scooping up the snow in great globs and cursed at the fresh flakes swirling down like downy feathers. "Goddamned mother fucking stupid winter!"

He never saw the snowball coming that hit him square in the chest. "Who threw that?" Brock brushed off the snow and got nailed with another right on the ass. "Fucking hell!" A snowball hovered in front of Brock and he had his answer. "Huh, thanks asshole. I didn't know you could come outside. Remember,  _delicate._ " He pointed at his head. The snowball vanished into a poof of snow as if it had been crumbled in fists. 

Brock leaned on his shovel in the quiet of the abandoned street, "So how far can you go away from the building?" A line dragged in the snow, about 150 feet from the front steps. "Do you ever come out here and people watch?" A single snowball hurled across the street.

YES.

Brock watched as snowflakes dusted down and blinked in amazement. "Hold _still_." The snowflakes started to coat what would have been Jack's broad shoulders, the top of his head, leaving a snowy impression of a very big man. "Holy shit, Jack, I can  _see_ you!" The flakes revealed the bridge of Jack's nose, his cheek bones and the bow of his lips. It was so beautiful. 

But way too slow.

Brock hefted his shovel and heaved a great gob of snow at Jack. It clung to his ghostly body, outlined his form. Brock did it again and a stark white Jack stood in front of him, illuminated by the glow of the streetlights.

" _Jack_." Brock dropped the shovel and looked up at his love. Snow clung to long eyelashes that blinked out of habit, void beneath the lids. "You're..." Brock was at a loss for words, snow melted under his fingertips as he reached up to touch Jack's cheek.

There was a sound of a cough behind them and Jack startled at it. Snow fell in clumps to the ground and Brock held back a sob at the loss. He whipped around to curse out whomever had spoiled his perfect moment and stopped at the sight of Vasquez holding a gun. 

"Brock Rumlow. Your name and address was on the receipt you showed me at the park. You're not the smartest boy, are you?" The old man had steel in his gaze to match the revolver in his hand. It looked a lot like the one that had snuffed out Jack's life. "Now, give me the coins."

Brock held up his hands, "Hold up,  _wait_ , I don't have the other coins."

"Too bad for you then," Vasquez cocked the gun, "You were going to die anyway, weren't you? All that bullshit about Jack Rollins and ghosts."

Brock felt Jack step into him, he couldn't stop Jack from taking over his body anymore than he could outrun a hurricane. "Robbie? Robbie is that you?" He wanted to scream, to push back but he couldn't. Jack wasn't listening to him.

Vasquez's hands started to tremble. " _Jackie-_ _boy_? It's not possible. This is all an act, you're a con man. You're _not_ him."

"Fuck. Oh, Robbie. I _miss_ you. Even now. I keep thinking about what we had out there. Even with ration packs and boot rot, getting shot at every fucking day, I was happy because you were there. We survived together, we were going to be together. I'd even made plans to buy back the farm upstate, I told you about it. We could have been happy, Robbie. We could have been _together_." Brock watched helpless from inside his own body as Jack reached out, "Why? Why'd you do it Robbie? I loved you." He touched Vasquez's tear stained face wrinkled by time. "Part of me still does." 

The murderer's eyes grew wide with amazement and fear. "It- it was an accident! I just needed the money." Vasquez gibbered, repeating what he'd said to Brock months earlier. "I told you that in the park."

"Oh. So, Brock visited you, did he? You're right, he's not the smartest boy, is he? But I love him too. So much. He's changed me." He combed back Vasquez's thin white hair gently, "You should go now. Go back to your family or whatever you've made of your life." He kissed Vasquez on the forehead, the old man shook with emotion and looked up at him, stricken. "Every moment is precious, take it from someone who knows. From someone who can't move on because of that." 

"Don't dare you leave me! Not again! I didn't mean it!" Vasquez called out, "You can't-- You can't do this! I want my money!" Lights flickered on in the building. 

"Robbie. Sweetheart." Jack smiled, full of forgiveness and mercy. The smile must have been what cracked Vasquez's sanity. "I  _forgive_  you."

The gunshot was shockingly loud in Brock's ears. He looked down at his bloody hands in disbelief and thought, _Fucking deja vu?_ No. The pain was real. Fucking hell, the pain was so real. 

Where was Jack? He needed Jack. Brock fell to his knees in the snow, then toppled over. He looked up at Vasquez, the pistol's muzzle smoked in a wisp. 

"You-- You're making this all up! You're an actor or a con-man! I want my mon--" He hissed with spittle flying from his lips, "I've waited seventy years for what belongs to me. What I  _deserve!_ "

The snow rose up from the ground and began to swirl around Vasquez in a funnel, faster and faster as Jack pelted Vasquez with frozen gobs of ice. Fists of ice and sleet battered at Vasquez's face, until the old man fell to the ground, stunned. There were sound of sirens in the distance. 

"Jack?" Brock whispered, "Jack?" He lay in the drifts, the snow painted with his blood. He looked up and saw flakes settling on Jack's shoulders. Jack pulled Brock into his arms. He blinked away the flakes in his lashes. Jack shined so brightly, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. He _saw_ Jack, he _felt_ Jack cradling him in his strong arms. It felt so good, so right. It wasn't fair.

"I'm here Brock. You goddamned fool. I thought you said there were no more secrets." Jack's voice rumbled like warm velvet in Brock's ears. 

"I've- got a shitty memory. You're so fucking beautiful." Jack smiled down at him. "Why do I feel so warm? It's still snowing..." Brock wondered.

"Because I'm here. I'll always be here with you Brock." Jack kissed him and petted his hair, "Do you want to come with me?" Jack glowed like the midday sun, "Don't be afraid. I'm with you."

Brock smirked, "I'm not afraid, but you can turn down the special effects, Spooky." He took Jack's hand and stood up, leaving his broken bloody body in the snow. "Huh," Brock said as he stared at his corpse, "Now who's going to feed the cat? He'll start eating the tenants..." Was he supposed to cry? He didn't feel like crying. Jack was there. 

Jack led him back into the building, his hand felt strong and warm, "Don't worry. We'll figure everything out later." They walked through the walls, rose up through the floors and returned to their apartment. "Right now, we're going to make a mess out of our bed."

Jack pushed Brock back onto the bed, intertwined their fingers and merged into him. Their combined light was blinding and cast harsh shadows on the walls. Brock never felt more at peace, more loved and he knew that Jack felt the same as they became one spectral being for a few moments. Ectoplasm bubbled and boiled over, spilled upon the floor in rivulets. The whole building shook as if an earthquake rumbled the block. Car alarms went off, blaring and dishes crashed to the floor. 

The police had Vasquez cuffed in a patrol car. Emergency workers who were trying to revive Brock halted their chest compressions.  "Calling it." One of them said, wiping their brow. "Time of death, 11:37 pm."  

\-----

EPILOGUE

"Next time, we're hiring movers." Steve said as he sucked on his crushed finger. "I am not carting your library up four flights of stairs again." He frowned at his reddened finger. 

"Says the man who collects art books that don't even fit in the damn boxes." Bucky shot back. "That was the last box. So quit your whining. The beer better be cold." 

Steve sat on their couch and looked out the window, "It feels kinda weird to be here. You know, without them." 

"Rent controlled. Beautiful view. Right on the bus line." Bucky sat beside Steve and pulled him close. "It's okay babe, we've got nothing but good memories of this place. They would have been happy to have us, you know that." 

"They did have us. In the Biblical sense. Wish we could have done that again, you know?" Steve snuggled into Bucky, then looked into the bedroom door at a huge black cat sprawled on their bedroom rug. "Bucky? When did we get a cat?"

"Must be the landlady's. Come on, let's get him back to his owner." Bucky stood up and walked into the bedroom, "Here, kitty kitty. Nice kit--" His mouth dropped open. Written in coins on the bedspread was the word  _WELCOME._

"Brock? Jack?" Bucky asked in a harsh whisper, "Who's here?" 

The coins shuffled about, _ME AND ME._  

Bucky laughed. "Well sonuvabitch." He called back to Steve, "Babe? Looks like we've got roommates." 

Steve sprang up, "Are there kittens?" He saw the coins and hugged Bucky. "Better than kittens. They made it." 

"I dunno." Bucky pointed at the air, beaming, "No ghosts in the bed!" Then he wrapped his arms around Steve.

They both started sniffling in relief and wonder. "This was not in the rental agreement. But I'd rather have ghosts than your mother living with us. You had a very beautiful funeral, Brock. But I'm pretty sure you're the only person who ever wanted to be buried in a laundry room." The will had been very specific and the landlady had called in a few favors to make it happen. The fresh slab of concrete was unmarked and only a few knew that it wasn't plumbing repairs. 

"Some people really like the smell of dryer sheets." A coin whipped past Steve's ear. "Hey now! Don't make me call Ghostbusters." They watched as the coins danced in the air and then neatly stacked on the dresser. 

Steve watched as the coins spelled out,  _GET A ROOM_ .

"Hey, this is our place too now, Brock." 

 _THAT WAS JACK_. The coins reconfigured. _HE'S AN ASSHOLE_. The air got very cold for a moment and the bed started shaking, Steve and Bucky backed out slowly and shut the door behind them. 

"We've got to get some whiteboards. Color coded markers. Shatterproof dishes..." Steve said breathlessly and Bucky nodded, then buried his face in Steve's hair. "We're really in for it, aren't we?"

THE END 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to everyone who read this crack fic that turned into something more. Thank you for the comments, they got me through some rough times. Thank you again.


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